Some poems / Thomas Pringle ; with illustrations by Harry Rowntree.

UNIVERSITY
or ILLINOIS

Tom Turner
Collection

POEMS OF
THOMAS PRINGLE

THE LION HUNT

from a painting by

HARRY RO UNTR EE

s

i

SOME POEMS OF

THOMAS

PRINGLE

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

HARRY ROWNTREE

T. N. FOULIS

LONDON, EDINBURGH, BOSTON

Published
September 1916

Printed in Scotland
by Turnbull Shears, Edinburgh

LA S T ^6 F C O N T E N T S

The Bechuana Boy . . . Pa^e 9

Afar IN THE Desert . . . *15

Song OF THE Wild Bushman . . 22

TheCoranna 24

The Lion-Hunt . . . *25

An Emigrant’s Song . . .29

The Captive of Camalu . . .30

The Desolate Valley . . -35

The Ghona Widow’s Lullaby . 41

The Cape of Storms

44

Turnbull 6= Spears, Prhiters, Edinburgh

I L LU S T R A T IONS

from paintings by

HARR Y ROUNTREE

THE LION HUNT

frontispiece

AFAR IN THE DESER T

page sixteen

THE LION HUNT

page thirty-three

THEGHONA WIDOW^S LULLABY

pagejorty

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

“I have no home!” replied the boy:
“The Bergenaars — by night
they came,

And raised their wolfish howl of joy,
While o'er our huts the flame
Resistless rushed; and aye their yell
Pealed louder as our warriors fell
In helpless heaps beneath their shot:
— One living man they left us not!

“The slaughter o'er, they gave the slain
To feast the foul-beaked birds of prey;
And, with our herds, across the plain
They hurried us away —

The widowed mothers and their brood.
Oft, in despair, for drink and food
We vainly cried: they heeded not.

But with sharp lash the captive smote.

“Three days we tracked that
dreary wild.

Where thirst and anguish pressed
us sore;

And many a mother and her child
Lay down to rise no more.

Behind us, on the desert brown.

We saw the vultures swooping down;
And heard, as the grim night was
falling.

The wolf to his gorged comrade callii

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

“At length was heard a river sounding
’Midst that dry and dismal land,

And, like a troop of wild deer
bounding,

We hurried to its strand —

Among the maddened cattle rushing;
The crowd behind still forward
pushing.

Till in the flood our limbs were
drenched.

And the fierce rage of thirst was
quenched.

“Hoarse-roaring, dark, the broad
Gareep

In turbid streams was sweeping fast.
Huge sea-cows in its eddies deep
Loud snorting as we passed;

But that relentless robber clan
Right through those waters wild
and wan

Drove on like sheep our wearied band:
— Some never reached the farther
strand.

“All shivering from the foaming flood,
W e stood upon the stranger’s ground.
When, with proud looks and gestures
rude.

The White Men gathered round:

1 1

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

And there, like cattle from the fold,

By Christians we were bought and sold,
’Midst laughter loud and looks
of scorn —

And roughly from each other torn.

“My Mother’s scream, so long
and shrill,

My little Sister’s wailing cry,

(In dreams I often hear them still!)
Rose wildly to the sky.

A tiger’s heart came to me then.

And fiercely on those ruthless men
I sprang. — Alas! dashed on the sand,
Bleeding, they bound me foot
and hand.

“Away — away on prancing steeds
The stout man-stealers blithely go.
Through long low valleys fringed
with reeds.

O’er mountains capped with snow,
Each with his captive, far and fast;
Until yon rock-bound ridge we passed,
And distant stripes of cultured soil
Bespoke the land of tears and toil.

“And tears and toil have been my lot
Since I the White Man’s thrall
became,

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

And sorer griefs I wish forgot —

Harsh blows, and scorn, and shame!
Oh, Englishman! thou ne’er canstknow
The injured bondman’s bitter woe,
When round his breast, like scorpions,
cling

Black thoughts that madden while
they sting!

‘‘Yet this hard fate I might have borne.
And taught in time my soul to bend,
Had my sad yearning heart forlorn
But found a single friend:

My race extinct or far removed.

The Boer’s rough brood I could
have loved;

But each to whom my bosom turned
Even like a hound the black boy
spurned.

“While, friendless thus, my master’s
flocks

I tended on the upland waste,

It chanced this fawn leapt from
the rocks.

By wolfish wild-dogs chased:

I rescued it, though wounded sore
And dabbled in its mother’s gore:

And nursed it in a cavern wild.

Until it loved me like a child.

13

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

‘^Gently I nursed it; for I thought
(Its hapless fate so like to mine)

By good Utiko it was brought
To bid me not repine, —

Since in this world of wrong and ill
One creature lived that loved me still,
Although its dark and dazzling eye
Beamed not with human sympathy.

“ Thus lived I, a lone orphan lad.

My task the proud Boer’s flocks
to tend;

And this poor fawn was all I had
To love, or call my friend;

When suddenly, with haughty look
And taunting words, that tyrant took
My playmate for his pampered boy.
Who envied me my only joy.

“High swelled my heart! — But when
the star

Of midnight gleamed, I softly led
My bounding favourite forth, and far
Into the Desert fled.

And here, from human kind exiled.
Three moons on roots and berries wild
I’ve fared; and braved the beasts
of prey,

T o ’scape from spoilers worse than they.

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

“ But yester morn a Bushman brought
The tidings that thy tents were near;
And now with hasty foot Pve sought
Thy presence, void of fear;

Because they say, O English Chief,
Thou scornest not the Captive’s grief:
Then let me serve thee, as thine own —
For I am in the world alone!”

Such was Marossi’s touching tale.

Our breasts they were not made
of stone:

His words, his winning looks prevail —
We took him for “ our own.”

And One, with woman’s gentle art,
Unlocked the fountains of his heart;
And love gushed forth — till he became
Her Child in every thing but name.

AFAR IN THE DESERT

A FAR in the Desert I love to ride.
With the silent Bush-boy alone
by my side:

When the sorrows of life the soul
o’ercast.

And, sick of the Present, I cling to
the Past;

IS

AFAR IN THE DESER T

fro7n a j)ainting by

HARR V RO UNTREE

■

-

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

When the eye is suffused with regretful
tears,

From the fond recollections of
former years;

And shadows of things that have long
since fled

Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of
the dead:

Bright visions of glory — that vanished
too soon;

Day-dreams — that departed ere man-
hood’s noon;

Attachments — by fate or by falsehood
reft;

Companions of early days — lost
or left;

And my Native Land — whose magical
name

Thrills to the heart like electric flame;

The home of my childhood; the haunts ^
of my prime;

All the passions and scenes of that rap-
turous time

When the feelings w^ere young and the
world was new.

Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfold-
ing to view;

All — all now forsaken — forgotten —
foregone!

17

B

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

And I — a lone exile remembered
of none —

My high aims abandoned, — my good
acts undone, —

Aweary of all that is under the sun, —

With that sadness of heart which no
stranger may scan,

I fly to the Desert afar from man!

Afar in the Desert I love to ride,

With the silent Bush-boy alone by
my side:

When the wild turmoil of this weari-
some life.

With its scenes of oppression, corrup-
tion, and strife —

The proud man’s frown, and the base
man’s fear, —

The scorner’s laugh, and the sufferer’s
tear, —

And malice, and meanness, and false-
hood, and folly.

Dispose me to musing and dark
melancholy;

When my bosom is full, and my thoughts
are high.

And my soul is sick with the bondman’s
sigh—

Oh ! then there is freedom, and jo^,^
and pride, i8

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

Afar in the Desert alone to ride!

There is rapture to vault on the champ-
ing steed,

And to bound away with the eagle’s
speed,

With the death-fraught firelock in
my hand —

The only law of the Desert Land!

Afar in the Desert I love to ride.

With the silent Bush-boy alone by
my side:

Away, — away from the dwellings
of men,

Bythewild deer’s haunt, by the buffalo’s
glen;

By valleys remote where the oribi plays.

Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the
hartebeest graze.

And the kudu and eland unhunted
recline

By the skirts of grey forests o’erhung
with wild vine:

Where the elephant browses at peace
in his wood.

And the river-horse gambols unscared
in the flood.

And the mighty rhinoceros wallows
at will

19

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

In the fen where the wild-ass is drinking
his fill.

Afar in the Desert I love to ride,

With the silent Bush-boy alone by
my side:

O’er the brown Karroo, where the
bleating cry

Of the springbok’s fawn sounds
plaintively;

And the timorous quagga’s shrill whist-
ling neigh

Is heard by the fountain at twilight
grey;

Where the zebra wantonly tosses
his mane.

With wild hoof scouring the desolate
plain;

And the fleet-footed ostrich over
the waste

Speeds like a horseman who travels
in haste,

Hieing away to the home of her rest.

Where she and her mate have scooped
their nest.

Far hid from the pitiless plunderer’s
view.

In the pathless depths of the parched
Karroo.

20

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

Afar in the Desert I love to ride,

With the silent Bush-boy alone by
my side:

Away — away — in the Wilderness vast,

Where the White Man’s foot hath never
passed,

And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan

Hath rarely crossed with his ro vingclan:

A region of emptiness, howling and
drear.

Which Man hath abandoned from
famine and fear;

Which the snake and the lizard inhabit
alone,

With the twilight bat from the yawning
stone;

Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub
takes root,

Save poisonous thorns that pierce
the foot;

And the bitter-melon, for food and
drink,

Is the pilgrim’s fare by the salt
lake’s brink:

A region of drought, where no river
glides.

Nor rippling brook with osiered sides;

Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount,

Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount,

21

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

Appears, to refresh the aching eye:

But the barren earth, and the burning
sky,

And the blank horizon, round and
round.

Spread — void of living sight or sound.

And here, while the night-winds round
me sigh.

And the stars burn bright in the mid-
night sky.

As I sit apart by the desert stone.

Like Elijah at Horeb’s cave alone,

“A still small voice’’ comes through
the wild

(Like a Father consoling his fretful
Child),

Which banishes bitterness, wrath,
and fear, —

Saying — Man is distant, but God
IS near!

SONG OF THE WILD
BUSHMAN

Let the proud White Man boast
his flocks,

And field of foodful grain;

My home is ’mid the mountain ropks.
The Desert my domain.

22

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

I plant no herbs nor pleasant fruits,

I toil not for my cheer;

The Desert yields me juicy roots,

And herds of bounding deer.

The countless springboks are my flock.
Spread o’er the unbounded plain;

The buffalo bendeth to my yoke.

The wild-horse to my rein;

My yoke is the quivering assagai,

My rein the tough bow-string;

My bridle curb is a slender barb —

Yet it quells the forest-king.

The crested adder honoureth me.

And yields at my command

His poison-bag, like the honey-bee,
When I seize him on the sand.

Yea, even the wasting locust-swarm.
Which mighty nations dread.

To me nor terror brings nor harm.

For I make of them my bread.

Thus I am lord of the Desert Land,
And I will not leave my bounds.

To crouch beneath the Christian’s
hand,

And kennel with his hounds:

To be a hound, and watch the flocks,
For the cruel White Man’s gain —

23

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLFj:

No! the brown Serpent of the Rocks
His den doth yet retain;

And none who there his sting provokes,
Shall find its poison vain!

THE COR ANNA

Fast by his wild resounding River
The listless Coran lingers ever;

Still drives his heifers forth to feed,
Soothedby the gorrah’s humming reed;

A rover still unchecked will range.

As humour calls, or seasons change;

His tent of mats and leathern gear
All packed upon the patient steer.

’Mid all his wanderings hating toil.

He never tills the stubborn soil;

, But on the milky dams relies.

And what spontaneous earth supplies.
Or, should long-parching droughts
prevail.

And milk, and bulbs, and locusts fail.
He lays him down to sleep away
In languid trance the weary day;

Oft as he feels gaunt hunger’s stound.
Still tightening famine’s girdle round; s
Lulled by the sound of the Gareep,
Beneath the willows murmuring deep:

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

Till thunder-clouds, surcharged
with rain,

Pour verdure o’er the panting plain;

And call the famished Dreamer from
his trance.

To feast on milk and game, and wake
the moon-light dance.

THE LION-HUNT

Mount — mount for the hunting
— with musket and spear!

Call our friends to the field — for the
Lion is near!

Call Arend and Ekhard and Groepe to
the spoor;

Call Muller and Coetzer and Lucas
Van Vuur.

Side up Eildon-Cleugh, and blow loudly
the bugle:

Call Slinger and Allie and Dikkop
and Dugal;

And George with the elephant-gun on
his shoulder —

In a perilous pinch none is better or
bolder.

25

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

In the gorge of the glen lie the bones
of my steed,

And the hoofs ofaheifer of fatherland’s
breed:

But mount, my brave boys! if our rifles
prove true,

We’ll soon make the spoiler his
ravages rue.

Ho! theHottentotladshavediscovered
the track —

To his den in the desert we’ll follow
him back;

But tighten your girths, and look well
to your flints,

For heavy and fresh are the villain’s
foot-prints.

Through the rough rocky kloof into
grey Huntly-Glen,

Past the wild-olive clump where the
wolf has his den,

By the black-eagle’s rock at the foot of
the fell,

We have tracked him at length to the^
buffalo’s well.

Now mark yonder brake where the
blood-hounds are howling;

And hark that hoarse sound — like the
deep thunder growling;

26

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

’Tis his lair — ’tis his voice! — from your
saddles alight;

He’s at bay in the brushwood preparing
for fight.

Leave the horses behind — and be still
every man:

Let the Mullers and Rennies advance
in the van:

Keep fast in your ranks; — by the yell
of yon hound,

The savage, I guess, will be out — with
a bound.

He comes! the tall jungle before him
loud crashing.

His mane bristled fiercely, his fiery eyes
flashing;

With a roar of disdain, he leaps forth
in his wrath.

To challenge the foe that dare ’leaguer
his path.

He couches — ay, now we’ll see mischief,

I dread:

Quick — level your rifles — and aim at
his head:

Thrust forward the spears, and un-
sheath every knife — ^

St George! he’s upon us! — Now, fire,

lads, for life! *

27

I

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

He’s wounded — but yet he’ll draw
blood ere he falls —

Ha! under his paw see Bezuidenhout
sprawls —

Now Diederik! Christian! right in
the brain

Plant each man his bullet — Hurra! he
is slain!

Bezuidenhout — up, man! — ’tis only a
scratch —

(You were always a scamp, and have
met with your match!)

What a glorious lion! — what sinews —
what claws —

And seven-foot-ten from the rump to
the jaws!

His hide, with the paws and the bones
of his skull.

With the spoils of the leopard and
buffalo bull.

We’ll send to Sir Walter. — Now, boys,
let us dine.

And talk of our deeds o’er a flask of
old wine.

AN EMIGRANTS SONG

OH, Maid of the Tweed, wilt thou
travel with me.

To the wilds of South Africa, far o’er
the sea.

Where the blue mountains tow’r in the
beautiful clime.

Hung round with huge forests all hoary
with time?

I’ll build thee a cabin beside the
clear fount.

Where it leaps into light from the
heart of the mount.

Ere yet its fresh footsteps have found
the fair meads

Where among the tall lilies the ante-
lope feeds.

Our home, like a bee-hive, shall stand
by the wood

Where the lory and turtle-dove nurse
their young brood.

And the golden-plumed paroquet
waves his bright wings
From the bough where the green-
monkey gambols and swings:
With the high rocks behind us, the
valley before,

The hills on each side with our flocks
speckled o’er.

29

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

And the far-sweeping river oft glancing
between,

With the heifers reclined on its
margins of green.

THE CAPTIVE OF CAMALU

O CAM ALU — green Camalu !

Twas there I fed my father’s
flock,

Beside the mount where cedars threw
At dawn theirshadowsfromthe rock;
There tended I my father’s flock
Along the grassy-margined rills.

Or chased the bounding bontebok
With hound and spear among
the hills.

Green Camalu ! methinks I view
The lilies in thy meadows growing;

I see thy waters bright and blue
Beneath the pale-leaved willows
flowing;

I hear, along the valleys lowing.

The heifers wending to the fold.
And jocund herd-boys loudly blowing
The horn — to mimic hunters bold.

30

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

Methinks I see the umkoba-tree
That shades the village-chieftain’s
cot;

The evening smoke curls lovingly
Above that calm and pleasant spot.
My father! — Ha! — I had forgot —

The old man rests in slumber deep:
My mother? — Ay! she answers not —
Her heart is hushed in dreamless
sleep.

My brothers too — green Camalu,
Repose they by thy quiet tide?

Ay! there they sleep — where White
Men slew

And left them — lying side by side.

No pity had those men of pride,
They fired the huts above the
dying ! —

— White bones bestrew that valley
wide —

I wish that mine were with them
lying’!

I envy you by Camalu,

Ye wild harts on the woody hills;
Though tigers there their prey pursue.
And vultures slake in blood their bills.

31

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

The heart may strive with Nature’s ills,
To Nature’s common doom resigned:
Death the frail body only kills—

But Thraldom brutifies the mind.

Oh, wretched fate! — heart-desolate,

A captive in the spoiler’s hand,

To serve the tyrant whom I hate —

To crouch beneath his proud
command —

Upon my flesh to bear his brand —

His blows, his bitter scorn to bide!- —
Would God, I in my native land
Had with my slaughtered brothers
died!

Ye mountains blue of Camalu,

Where once I fed my father’s flock.
Though desolation dwells with you.
And Amakosa’s heart is broke.

Yet, spite of chains these limbs
that mock,

Myhomeless heart to you doth fly, —
As flies the wild- dove to the rock.

To hide its wounded breast — anddie!

Yet, ere my spirit wings its flight
Unto Death’s silent shadowy clime,
Utiko! Lord of life and light.

Who, high above the clouds of Time,

32

I

THE LION HUNT

from a painting by

HARRY RO UNTREE

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

Calm sittest where yon hosts sublime
Of stars wheel round Thy bright
abode,

Oh, let my cry unto Thee climb.

Of every race the Father-God!

I ask not Judgments from Thy hand —
Destroying hail, or parching drought.
Or locust-swarms to waste the land.

Or pestilence, by famine brought;

I say the prayer Jankanna taught.

Who wept for Amakosa’s wrongs —
“ Thy Kingdom come — Thy Will
be wrought —

For unto Thee all Power belongs/’

Thy Kingdom come ! Let Light and
Grace

Throughout all lands in triumph go;
Till pride and strife to love give place.
And blood and tears forget to flow;
Till Europe mourn for Afric’s woe.
And o’er the deep her arms extend
To lift her where she lieth low —

And prove indeed her Christian
Friend!

THE DESOLATE VALLEY

Far up among the forest-belted
mountains,

Where Winterberg, stern giant old
and grey,

Looks down the subject dells, whose
gleaming fountains

To wizard Kat their virgin tribute pay.
A valley opens to the noontide ray.
With green savannahs shelving to
the brim

Of the swift River, sweeping on
his way

To where Umtoka hies to meet
with him,

Like a blue serpent gliding through the
acacias dim.

Round this secluded region circling
rise

A billowy waste of mountains, wild
and wide;

Upon whose grassy slopes the pilgrim
spies

The gnu and quagga, by the green-
wood side.

Tossing their shaggy manes in tame-
less pride;

Or troop of elands near some sedgy
fount;

35

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

Or kudu fawns, that from the thicket
glide

To seek their dam upon the misty
mount;

With harts, gazelles, and roes, more
than the eye may count.

And as wejourned up the pathless glen,

Flanked by romantic hills on either
hand,

The boschbok oft would bound away
— and then

Beside the willows, backward gazing,
stand.

And where old forests darken all
the land

From rocky Katberg to the river’s
brink.

The buffalo would start upon the
strand.

Where, ’mid palmetto flags, he stooped
to drink.

And, crashing through the brakes, to
the deep jungle shrink.

Then, couched at night in hunter’s
wattled shieling.

How wildly beautiful it was to hear

The elephant his shrill reveille

36

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

Like somefarsignal-trumpetontheear!

While the broad midnight moon was
shining clear,

How fearful to look forth upon the
woods,

And see those stately forest-kings
appear,

Emerging from their shadowy
solitudes —

As if that trump had woke Earth’s old
gigantic broods!

Such the majestic, melancholy scene

Which ’midst that mountain-wilderness
we found;

With scarce a trace to tell v/here man
had been.

Save the old Kaffir cabins crumbling
round.

Yet this lone glen (Sicana’s ancient
ground).

To Nature’s savage tribes abandoned
long,

Had heard, erewhile, the Gospel’s joy-
ful sound.

And low of herds mixed with the Sab-
bath song.

But all is silent now. The Oppressor’s
hand was strong.

37

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

Now the blithe loxia hangs her
pensile nest

From the wild-olive, bending o’er
the rock,

Beneath whose shadow, in grave
mantle drest.

The Christian Pastor taught his
swarthy flock.

A roofless ruin, scathed by flame
and smoke.

Tells where the decent Mission-chapel
stood;

While the baboon with jabbering cry
doth mock

The pilgrim, pausing in his pensive
mood

To ask — “Why is it thus? Shall EVIL
baffle GOOD?”

Yes — for a season Satan may prevail.

And hold, as if secure, his dark domain;

The prayers of righteous men may
seem to fail.

And Heaven’s Glad Tidings be pro-
claimed in vain.

But wait in faith: ere long shall spring
again

The seed that seemed to perish in the
ground;

38

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

And, fertilised by Zion’s latter rain,

The long-parched land shall laugh,
with harvests crowned,

And through those silent wastes
Jehovah’s praise resound.

Look round that Vale: behold the
unburied bones

Of Ghona’s children withering in
the blast:

The sobbing wind, that through the
forest moans,

Whispers — “The spirit hath for ever
passed!”

Thus, in the Vale of Desolation vast,

In moral death dark Afric’s myriads lie;

But the Appointed Day shall dawn
at last.

When, breathed on by a Spirit from
on H igh.

The dry bones shall awake, and shout
— “Our God is nigh!”

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THE GHONA WIDOW’S
LULLABY

The storm hath ceased: yet
still I hear

The distant thunder sounding,

And from the mountains, far and near,
The headlong torrents bounding.
The jackal shrieks upon the rocks;

The tiger-wolf is howling;

The panther round the folded flocks
With stifled is prowling.

But lay thee down in peace, my child;
God w’atcheth o’er us midst the wild.

I fear the Bushman is abroad —

He loves the midnight thunder;

The sheeted lightning shows the road,
That leads his feet to plunder:

I’d rather meet the hooded-snake
Than hear his rattling quiver,

When, like an adder, through the brake.
He glides along the river.

But, darling, hush thy heart to sleep —
The Lord our Shepherd watch
doth keep.

The Kosa from Luheri high
Looks down upon our dwelling;

And shakes the vengeful assagai, —
Unto his clansman telling

41

/

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

How he, for us^ by grievous wrong,
Hath lost these fertile valleys;

And boasts that now his hand is strong
To pay the debt of malice.

But sleep, my child; a Mightier Arm
Shall shield thee (helpless one!)
from harm.

The moon is up; a fleecy cloud
O’er heaven’s blue deeps is sailing;
The stream, that lately raved so loud.
Makes now a gentle wailing.

From yonder crags, lit by the moon,

I hear a wild voice crying:

’Tis but the harmless bear-baboon.
Unto his mates replying.

Hush — hush thy dreams, my moaning
dove.

And slumber in the arms of love!

The wolf, scared by the watch-dog’s
bay,

Is to the woods returning;

By his rock-fortress, far away.

The Bushman’s fire is burning.

And hark! Sicana’s midnight hymn.
Along the valley swelling.

Calls us to stretch the wearied limb.
While kinsmen guard our dwelling:

42

POEMS OF THOMAS PRINGLE

Though vainly watchmen wake
from sleep,

“Unless the Lord the city keep.’’

At dawn, we’ll seek, with songs
of praise.

Our food on the savannah.

As Israel sought, in ancient days,

The heaven-descended manna;

With gladness from the fertile land
The veldt-kost we will gather,

A harvest planted by the hand
Of the Almighty Father —

From thraldom who redeems our race.
To plant them in their ancient place.

Then, let us calmly rest, my child;

Jehovah’s arm is round us.

The God, the Father reconciled.

In heathen gloom who found us;
Who to this heart, by sorrow broke.
His wondrous Word revealing.

Led me, a lost sheep, to the flock,

And to the Fount of Healing.

Oh may the Saviour-Shepherd lead
My darling where His lambs do feed!

THE CAPE OF STORMS

OCAPE of Storms! although thy
front be dark,

And bleak thy naked cliffs and
cheerless vales,

And perilous thy fierce and faithless
gales

To staunchest mariner and stoutest
bark;

And though along thy coasts with grief
I mark

The servile and the slave, and him
who wails

An exile^s lot — and blush to hear
thy tales

Of sin and sorrow and oppression
stark: —

. Yet, spite of physical and moral ill.
And after all IVe seen and suffered
here.

There are strong links that bind me to
thee still,

And render even thy rocks and
deserts dear;

Here dwell kind hearts which time nor
place can chill —

Loved Kindred and congenial Friends
sincere.

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